The watching man chose his moment with care. During his long vigil he had grown familiar not only with Foyle's routine but also with the day-to-day schedule of the station. He had been pleased to observe how short-staffed the place was compared with former times; this would make his task easier. Late afternoon, he decided, would be the best time to strike – after six o'clock, when the day shift had gone home and the scanty night patrol had set off on the beat. The DCS seldom ended his workday before seven, but there were few other people about at that hour except for the desk sergeant and the duty officers down in the cellblock, who would be occupied with overseeing the prisoners' evening meal. Very well. He would be ready to bait his trap and, at long last, avenge himself on the man who had destroyed his life.
At a quarter past six on that ordinary July day MTC volunteer Samantha Stewart could be found, as usual, in the station kitchen. Jacket removed and sleeves rolled to the elbow, her foot tapped energetically along with the lively rendition of Tommy Dorsey's "Opus One" emitting from the wireless as she washed up the last of the tea-things. It was one of her favourite tunes, and for once she hadn't been afraid to inch the volume up to a really enjoyable level. Mr Foyle, whose office was just along the corridor, was closeted with Mr Reid in his room upstairs, hashing out a long-delayed decision about which constables they would put forward for promotion. As the kitchen was tucked away in a back corner of the station, there was little chance of disturbing anyone else save Sergeant Milner, whose office was just round the corner. But she wasn't worried about him. Gentle, even-tempered Milner didn't mind a song or two at the end of a long day, and true friend that he was, he never scolded or made a fuss.
Between the music and the water flowing from the tap, Sam never heard a sound. The first inkling she had of something amiss was a pair of strong arms seizing her from behind, one pinning her arms to her sides, the other hand clapped over her mouth to smother her cry of shock. The cup she'd been rinsing smashed to the floor as her assailant jerked her backward out of the room. They covered the few steps from the kitchen to the back stairs in seconds and then he was propelling her down the flight so swiftly that she struggled to keep her footing.
Her first thought was that one of the young cadets or constables must be playing a practical joke on her, but she realised almost at once that she was mistaken. No man in the Hastings police station would dare treat her this way. This had to be someone else, and his rough handling was certainly no joke! Panic surged through her and she began to fight in earnest, throwing her weight this way and that in a desperate effort to break his iron grip. What did he plan to do with her? Robbery? Rape? For God's sake, what kind of madman attacks a woman in the middle of a police station?
He was forcing her down the back stairs, the ones that led to the old cellblock. Sam had spent very little time in this part of the building, as it was no longer in use. The war had rendered the area unnecessary, for the handful of remaining policemen required less space than the larger peacetime force. Sam could recall Mr Foyle using the interview room down there once or twice during her first months at the station, but never since. Both he and Milner preferred the brighter and more convenient space on the ground floor.
And now her assailant was dragging her into that very room, his arm so tight round her torso that she was finding it hard to draw breath. She tried to force her mind to observe details about him in a futile effort to guess his identity. He was tall – at least as tall as Milner, she guessed, but stockier. The arms that gripped her were heavily muscled; the chest behind her back felt broad and solid. Beyond that she could tell nothing.
He spun her to face him and pushed her against the wall in the far corner, one hand still hard over her mouth. The room was dark, the only light spilling through the open doorway from the dim bulb in the corridor, so that it was impossible for her to make out his features. The odours of cheap cigarettes and stale beer on his breath were not enough to mask the rancid smell of a body too long unwashed. Her stomach heaved and she struggled anew to break free of him, but it was no use. He was much stronger than she.
"Hold still now," he growled. "Jus' hold still, or else – " and with a quick gesture he dipped a hand inside his jacket and flashed something long and shiny between them. She froze as the blade hovered and danced before her, glinting as it caught the light.
"That's better," he hissed, his voice low and guttural. "Not a sound out of you, now. Scream and it'll be the last thing you ever do. You 'ear me?"
He removed his hand from her face, but terror held her silent and rigidly still. It would be useless to scream anyway, she knew; the walls down here were too thick for sound to penetrate, and the nearest policeman was at least forty feet away behind a heavy metal door. "Lissen," he growled, "It's not you I'm after. You do wha' I tell you and you won't get hurt. Understand?" At her barely perceptible nod he continued, "Right. Now, you just pick up this here phone" - he gestured at instrument on the wall nearby – "and get your bleedin' boss down 'ere. Him and me've got some unfinished business to tend to. You do that, girlie, an' you'll walk away in one piece."
Oh, dear God, she thought, fresh horror making her blood run cold. That's what this is about. Revenge. She was hardly unaware that there were plenty of dishonest folk about who bore a grudge against the police, but it had never occurred to her that someone might turn up looking to even the score. This man's violent fury, coupled with the flashing blade, were enough to convince her of his murderous intentions. She closed her eyes as the nightmare of her predicament sank in. What on earth was she meant to do?
If she didn't comply, he would almost certainly hurt her, possibly even kill her. But if she summoned Foyle down here he would face an ambush - no warning, no weapon, no chance to defend himself. How could she live with herself, knowing that she had lured him to certain death just to save her own skin? It was unthinkable. "I can't," she whispered, the words forcing themselves out almost involuntarily.
Her attacker twisted her shirt roughly with his free hand, tightening it round her neck as he brandished the knife closer. "Why, you little bitch. Don't you give me that! You get him down 'ere now, or I'll - " she felt him jerk at her tie, followed by the telltale sing of the blade as he sliced the fabric in half. Another yank as he ripped her collar open, then the touch of cold steel against her throat.
She fought the rising tide of panic, her mind spinning desperately for a way out, for some magic phrase that would quell his spiralling rage. "No, I mean … I can't call him," she heard herself gasp hoarsely. "He's … not here." Where had the words come from?
His grip on her shirt slackened a trifle. "What's that?"
She swallowed, wondering what power had taken over for her benumbed brain. "He's - at the dentist. Toothache."
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why din't you drive him then?"
"It's just up the street." Again, it was as though some other intelligence was answering in her stead. "I'm to take him home when he gets back." She forced her eyes to meet his steadily, praying he would believe her. Lying, she knew, had never been her strong suit.
Her captor studied her closely, weighing her words. He drew in a deep breath and let it out in an angry hiss. "Right, then" he grunted at last. "So we wait."
